


Shut Up And Watch The Sunrise With Me

by Ysmni



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Eye Trauma, implied prostitution, sex references, sort of implied self-harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 10:50:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13316556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmni/pseuds/Ysmni
Summary: The elder Pines twins are finally sailing off on the ocean adventure they always promised each other. They're very different people than they were when that promise was made, however. The brothers have a little more to worry about than Arctic storms and the occassional sea monster.And perhaps, they're not as alone at sea as they thought they were...





	1. Chapter 1

"Stanley, get down!" Ford almost screeched as the creature swept the deck of the boat with one giant tentacle. Stan ducked under it, nearly losing his hat, and sprinted over to where his brother was wrestling with two of it's other appendages. One was wrapped firmly around Ford's leg while the other and held his arm roughly behind his back and was pressing his face hard into the floor. He grabbed the one on his leg and yanked it but it wouldn't budge. All it did was prompt whatever hell spawn was attacking them to yank Ford along the deck away from him. The older twin screamed, his cheek grazing badly, paving a road of fresh blood between the twins and Stan's heart was in his throat. 

The one sweeping tentacle tried again to grab him but he managed to roll out of the way and pick up the harpoon from where Ford had dropped it when he'd been grabbed. He whistled as loud as he could and the creature's one eye fell on him. 

"Hey, Ugly! Let him go!" He yelled, and punctuated the sentence with a harpoon right into the creature's eyeball. It recoiled with a deafening cry, but not in the way Stanley had been hoping for. Ford was lifted bodily by the arm high up into the air, his sleeve ripping and tearing. Stan gazed up at him, chest pounding. He was painfully aware that Ford wasn't wearing his life jacket, if that monster dropped him into the freezing water... 

"Stanley, look ou-AACK!" Ford tried to warn, but the tentacle on his leg let go and instead coiled tight around his throat. 

_"Ford!"_ Stan cried. He heard the tentacle moving behind him too late, and whipped round to look. Before he could do anything, it caught him over the eyes, shattering his glasses in an instant, and he was sent sprawling across the deck. He didn't get up. 

Ford tried to call his name but had no breath for the task. The tentacle on his arm seemed to be slackening while the creature was in pain. With his free arm, he fumbled in his pocket for the knife he kept there. He plunged it straight into the tentacle gripping his neck just as tightly as he was the handle of the knife. Yellow blood spurted from the wound, and the creatures hold on his throat relaxed. Salty sea air rushed into his lungs, but he didn't spare a moment to relish it. He retracted the blade from the sickly flesh and reached up to drive it into the appendage holding him off the ship. The creature screeched, and cast him down onto the ship in the same direction as the knife. He landed on it, the blade slicing his shoulder blade as he crashed hard on the deck. 

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to sit up, the knife still firmly in his back. The creature roared and Ford watched as it plummeted back into the depths, apparently deciding that the Pines twins weren't worth all the bother just for a quick snack. The force of its retreat rocked the boat and he tried his best to get to his feet. After a few shaky starts, he managed it. He could feel blood starting to seep into his sweater from the wound on his back. He didn't care. He just needed to get to Stanley. 

He tried to call his name but the words were too harsh for his damaged throat and he just made a strangled noise that was drowned out by the roar of the ocean around them. He managed just a few steps before the pain and the unsteady surface he was walking on had him falling to his knees just a few steps away from where Stan was lying, mouth open slightly, glasses shattered, eyelids closed and smeared with blood. That face, that blank expression brought to forefront of Ford's mind the memory of the remnants of his brother kneeling in that forest, wearing the wrong clothes and looking so, so helpless, completely oblivious as the world was restored to sanity around him. The worst and more raced through Ford's mind as he struggled to his feet again. 

"Stan..." he croaked, "Stanley, ca-can you hear me? Please..." 

_What if he's dead?_ He thought, and took another shaky step. 

_What if he isn't?_  

_What if he's gone again?_  

_What if he's gone for good now?_  

_What if you destroyed his mind forever?_  

He gritted his teeth and made one last effort to reach him before the pain became too much. 

_What if you did that to him for no reason at all?_  

_What if it didn't even work?_  

That thought again. 

_What if He wasn't erased completely?_  

_What if it's not Stanley who wakes up, but Him?_  

Blood dripped from his face onto his brother's chin as he pulled Stan up onto his lap and cradled his brother in his arms. Stan's brow furrowed slightly as the droplets hit him, and his eyelids scrunched a little in distress. 

"Stanley...?" Ford whispered, but he couldn't let himself be relieved just yet. He pulled the shattered glasses from his face, and threw them across the deck. Stanley's left eye was badly cut from the broken glass. "Please..." 

Stan opened his right eye and blinked up at him. An eye that mirrored Ford's almost exactly. Dark blue iris, round pupil. Thank God. 

"Quit bleeding on me, would ya?" Stan demanded, but the chuckle to his words proved there was no true reprimand behind it. His hand flew over his other eye before Ford could even think to stop him, and panic flashed his face when his fingers found the glass shards embedded in it. "This hurts like hell," He hissed. "Ford? You alright, buddy? You look like crap," Stan told him, coughing, and sitting up. He found himself unable to open his eye without pain so intense it made his head swim. "Guess I don't look a whole lot better, huh?" Stanley smirked up at him, trying to lighten the mood. Ford just kept staring at him, expression seemingly stuck on worried despite the million conflicting emotions fighting for dominance under the surface. Champion among them, standing proud, was sheer relief. 

"Woah, hey!" Stan exclaimed when Ford wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a tight hug. 

"Don't... don't scare me like that." Ford whispered harshly in his ear. Stan pushed him away gently by the shoulder, vision going dark around the edges. 

"Gotta keep you on your toes somehow, Sixer," he joked, grip on Ford growing more lax by the second. "Can't have you getting lazy in your old age, heh." 

The last thing he saw with his one good eye before slipping into unconsciousness again was Ford's grim expression cracking and revealing the hollow smile on his lips. 

\--- 

The feeling of being watched. 

Dappled moonlight on a forest floor. 

No birds, no sound. 

The snap of a twig. 

Darkness surrounds you. 

A deep growl behind you. 

You turn, just enough. 

Quivering jowls. 

Jagged teeth. 

Mane as black as shadow. 

A single, yellow eye. 

You turn back. 

Darkness swallows you. 

That single eye behind you. 

You run, not enough. 

Teeth. 

TEETH. 

**_TEETH_**. 

\--- 

OEHIRK DVP T CBUC KXZNM COXNZOV XUC XRHGON T 

OEHA CN XJNZ DBU RPTC DP WCBPIEwgTyBUIEw= 

\--- 

Consciousness was not kind to Stanley Pines when it returned to him. He woke with a start, the familiar nightmare shaking him from sleep. Everything hurt at once, there was an irritating tinny voice coming from what sounded like their laptop and even the dim light of the cabin shining through his eyelid was too harsh on his eye. 

Eye. 

Stan sat up abruptly, his hand flying to his face. His left eye was covered by a bandage that stretched over his scalp and under his ear. The noise coming from the laptop paused and footsteps raced over to him. 

"Don't move too suddenly," His brother instructed in that authoritative tone Stan always hated, getting down on one knee in front of him. His voice was still hoarse, but he could string a sentence together now, it seemed. "You might pull the bandages loose. Just take it easy." 

"Ford," he asked slowly, squinting at him a little without his glasses. "What happened to my eye?" Ford frowned, like it was obvious. 

"That tentacle shattered your glasses when it struck you. Good thing we packed spares," he commented, pulling a pair out of his pants pocket and handing it to his brother. 

"That bit, I remember," Stan murmured, flicking the arms open and sticking his glasses on. Ford's face came into focus, and he looked, well, exhausted. He'd not even washed all the blood from his face. "That's not what I meant and you know it." Ford looked down at his hands. There were specks of dried blood on them, too. 

"I'm sorry, Stanley. The damage was too severe," he told him. "I had to remove it." 

"Remove it?!" Stan exclaimed. "You _removed_ it?" 

"I did, yes," he admitted in a tone so nonchalant it made Stan's blood boil. "It wasn't exactly easy. Still, I'm nothing if not resourceful." 

"You removed my goddamn _eye_ ," Stan repeated slowly. Ford rolled his eyes. He actually rolled them. Both of them. Lucky bastard. 

"One of my PhD's is in practical field medicine. I've been treating my own injuries in incredibly hostile dimensions for thirty years with only a myriad of scars and memories to show for it. I am more than capable of something so trivial." 

"Ford, I swear to God, if you don't shut up with that casual tone when you're talking about removing my goddamn _eyeball_ -" Ford cut him off with an exasperated sigh that only served to further enrage his brother. 

"Stan, please, it's not that big of a deal..." 

Stan's hand clenched into a fist without him even realizing it. He drew in a deep breath, and tried to calm down. 

"I'm not questioning your ability to play doctor, Poindexter," he clarified, pinching the bridge of his nose, "What I _am_ questioning is you not running that decision by me first. I thought we promised to try and be better at communicating." 

"There wasn't much to communicate," Ford told him plainly. "It was either wait for you to wake up, in which time the wound would have attempted to heal with the glass shards still in there, or remove the eye cleanly while you were already unconscious and deal with you being grouchy when you woke up. I chose the latter." 

"You could've at least _tried_ to wake me," Stan grumbled. Ford barked an ugly laugh. 

"You think I didn't?" His voice cracked and grew hoarse. "You honestly think I wouldn't have at least tried to wake you before so much as moving you inside? You really think me that callous, Stanley?" 

"I-!" he was about to yell, but he stopped himself. "No, I don't think you're callous. Look, my head hurts like hell, I-I'm not thinking straight. This is kind of a shock." Ford sighed, and rested a comforting hand on his knee. 

"I know it is. I should have been more sensitive of that fact instead of getting defensive. I'm sorry." 

"I'm sorry too. I guess I'm just angry, but without that big ugly squid here to take my anger out on, I ended up taking it out on the ugly squid I shared a womb with." 

"Hey!" Ford punched him playfully in the arm. Stan laughed, and his brother did too, despite himself. 

"We good?" 

"We're good, yes." Ford confirmed with a smile. Stan held out his arms. 

"Awkward sibling hug?" He suggested. Ford raised his eyebrows. 

"What?" 

"It's something Mabel and Dipper do after they resolve an argument," Stan explained, lowering his arms a little. "Thought it might be an idea for us to try it." 

"...How does it work?" Ford asked. Now it was Stan's turn to roll his eyes. Eye. That was going to take some getting used to. 

"It's just a hug, Sixer. You gotta do the pats though, Mabel assures me the pats are completely necessary." 

"The ...pats?" 

"We pat each other on the back and say 'pat pat'." 

"Seriously?" 

"Look, just follow my lead," Stan insisted and pulled Ford into a hug. Ford hesitantly returned it. 

"Pat. Pat." they said together, Ford slightly behind on both words and pats. On the second pat, Stan's hand found the handle of a knife, still embedded in his brother's shoulder. He let go of him. 

"You know what, I do feel a little better," The older twin admitted. "Maybe the kids are onto something." 

"Ford, you do realize you have a knife sticking out of your back?" Stan told him bluntly. 

"Oh yes, so I do." 

"What, did you just forget?" 

"I was busy." 

"Let me help you patch that up," he offered. "Return the favor, kinda thing." Stan threw the covers off himself and tried to get up, but Ford stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. The younger twin regarded him for a good few seconds before speaking again, softly. 

"I'm fine, Ford. Let me do this for you." 

Ford had a dozen reasons to say no, but none of them were strong enough to withstand his brother's earnest gaze. 

"Alright, Stanley," he agreed, letting his hand fall away. "Just ...don't exert yourself, you've lost a lot of blood, you might send yourself into shock. And you're not used to a lack of depth perception yet." 

"I used to wear an eyepatch over that eye all the time anyway, part of the whole Mr. Mystery shtick. Add that to the cataracts and I end up seeing better out of this one eye than I did two. In fact, I have one of my patches here somewhere." 

"Why did you bring an eyepatch with you on a sea voyage?" Ford asked with a chuckle. Stan stood up shakily with a little help and made his way to the kitchen area of the cabin. He fished around in a drawer until his fingers wrapped around silk and elastic. 

"Hey, we're on a boat. If you didn't guess I was going to torment you with a terrible pirate impression at some point, you don't know me well enough," Ford sat down where Stan had just been lying and watched him slip the eyepatch on over his glasses and bandages. "Yarr." 

"You're right, that was terrible." 

"That wasn't the impression, jackass." 

"Could the nautical nonsense maybe wait until later, Stanley?" 

"Alright, alright. What's the damage, then, Sixer?" he asked, walking over to the little table next to the bed Ford was sat on. The first aid kit was already on it, and Stan clicked it open. 

"I saw to both our minor injuries already while you were out. And, thankfully, the knife missed stabbing anything important, and isn't bleeding all that much while it's still in me. However, it still fucking hurts. Could you grab a towel, please, Stanley?" 

Reaching up into an overhead cupboard to grab a clean towel, Stan couldn't help the small curl on his lips from hearing the great Stanford Pines swear. Even when they were teenagers, Ford wasn't someone who swore very often. He could probably count on his fingers the times he'd heard him say anything stronger than 'damn' since he'd come out of the portal. 

He was struck by a memory of a nine year old Ford blushing redder than a cherry the first time he'd said 'fuck' out loud. The two brothers dared each other to say increasingly bad swear words one evening, sat cross-legged on their bedroom floor under a makeshift blanket-tent. Ford had been so scared their father would overhear them his hands shook. In retrospect, it was kind of adorable, but at the same time, his fear was completely justified. Stan furrowed his brow, chasing the memory even as it slipped from his grasp and became hazy and unreal. 

"Are you alright, Stanley?" Ford asked him, noticing that his brother had been staring into the open cupboard for the last few moments without moving. He snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Ford's voice, and slammed the cupboard shut. 

"Alright as I can be," Stanley dismissed, throwing the towel over his shoulder. "It's you we should be worried about right this second." 

"I've had worse than this. And I've had to deal with worse than this, alone, in an alternate dimension. Stanley, if you're still injured in any way I don't know about, say so. Don't lie about it." 

"Okay, so I've got a bit of a headache," he shrugged, setting the towel down on the table and rifling through the first aid kit. "Big deal, I'll live. How did you end up with a knife on your back anyway?" he pointed out, gesturing at him with a packet of antiseptic wipes. Ford took them and started wiping the blood from his face, only gingerly touching his neck. 

"I fell on it when that Cycloptopus dropped me." 

"That what it was? Just another big Cycloptopus?" 

"I believe so. I took a few blood samples from the thing when I was done with you, to compare with that of a regular one. It's hard to be sure it's not an entirely new species. If it is a genetic match, however, then we’re on the right track. I've never seen one that big before. We must be getting closer and closer to the source of the anomalies." 

"Hope the monsters don't get much more aggressive than that. I've only got one eye left." Stan joked, but Ford’s face remained grave. 

"It caught us off guard. That's the only reason we're injured at all. If we had both been ready for it, it would be calamari right now." 

"And what's to say we won't be caught off guard again?" 

"Because from now on, we're not steering this boat any closer to our destination unless we're both one hundred percent ready and prepared for anything fate might throw at us. I'm not letting anything like this happen to you again." 

"Ford..." 

"Don't give me that look, Stanley. It's my fault, I dragged you into this. I've spent years battling monsters and deadly creatures, I'm _used_ to it but-" Stan cut him off with a snort. 

"But I'm not? I lived in Gravity Falls for thirty years, Ford. Do the math. Heck, just this past summer with the kids I punched a pterodactyl in the face, beat up a load of zombies, and, oh yeah, destroyed the Nacho of Doom for you. You're welcome." 

"Alright, alright, point proven. Wait, a pterodactyl?!" 

"Yeah. Turns out there's loads of dinosaurs trapped in tree sap under Gravity Falls. One got free and made off with Mabel's pig, so I punched it in the face and got it back for her." 

"Dinosaurs under the town? And they're still alive, preserved for millions of years in the sap? Fascinating..." 

"Ford, focus," Stan instructed, sitting down next to him on the bed. 

"Right, sorry. Tell me about it later," the older twin apologized, turning his back to him so his brother could get a good look at the damage. 

"Yikes, I hope you've got a spare one of these sweaters you love so much. Between the bloodstains, the ruined sleeve and the hole in the back, this one's kinda wrecked." 

"I have other sweaters, yes. Lots of sweaters, actually. Mabel is a talented and well, prolific little seamstress." 

"That she is," Stan chuckled, "Okay, walk me through this," he told him. 

"Aye aye, Captain Stanley," Ford gave him a mock salute, before his shoulder reminded him that a knife had been planted in it recently, and protested. He swore under his breath. "First of all, how deep in is it?" The stab wound wasn't that bad, but it still left a deep crimson stain on his favorite sweater and a nasty hole in his favorite shoulder blade. It couldn't be in more than a few centimeters. 

"Less than an inch," he told him. 

"In that case, I'm going to need you to pull it out and clean the wound before you bandage it up. It's going to bleed quite a bit once the knife is out, but that's what the towel is for." 

"Alright," Stan agreed. "Sweater off." 

"What?" Ford asked dumbly, turning back to look at him. The younger twin frowned. 

"You need to take your sweater off so I can clean that stab wound up properly. There's blood and bits of wool everywhere," he explained, slowly, in case Ford just hadn't heard him right. Something changed completely in Ford's demeanor, and Stan noticed. 

"I, um, is that completely necessary? As you said, the sweater is a ruin, couldn't you just cut the material around it away?" Ford rationalized, punctuating the sentence with a hopeful grin. Stan looked at his twin in complete skepticism. 

"Well yeah, I could, but it'd probably be easier for you to just pull the whole thing off over your head. Why is this a big deal?" 

"It's not! It's not, I just think, maybe, um, I should keep it on." 

"Why?" Stan asked flatly. Ford bit his lip. 

"Uh... it's cold?" 

Stan caught a glimpse of faded black underneath his twin's torn sleeve. 

"Ford, you've never been able to lie to me. You've been wearing turtlenecks and long sleeves ever since you came out of the portal. What is it you're hiding?" He reached out to move the sleeve for a better look and did Ford just _yelp?_  

"I'm not hiding anything!" he lied, blatantly, pulling his arm away. Stanley retracted his hand. 

"Yes, you are," Stan insisted. "Whatever it is, Ford, you can show me. It's okay." He watched his panicking brother's face carefully for a solid thirty seconds, until could actually pinpoint the moment Ford gave up. Ford closed his eyes, and sighed. 

"Fine. Whatever. I suppose you were bound to see eventually..." The older twin acquiesced, and pulled off his sweater and undershirt over his head in one swift movement, and Stan found it hard to hide his surprise even with his legendary poker face. "Just know I'm not exactly proud to be a living shrine to that polygonal bastard." 

Stanley wasn't sure what shocked him most. The impossibly well toned physique no man pushing seventy had any right to possess? The faded gold and black tattoos covering his whole upper body up to his collarbones and reaching down just past his elbows? The angry purple bruises on his arm and throat? Or the deep set scars that intersected the ink? 

His trim shoulders, arms, and torso were covered in alchemic symbols, ciphers and codes, constellations and complex patterns. Some of them Stan recognized from pages in the journals, others from Ford's notes Stan had once pored over for days on end until they were burned into his fragmented memory, others he couldn't even guess at their significance. On the right side of his chest, standing out proudly, was the six-fingered hand symbol from the front of the journals. On his left shoulder, interrupted by faded, ugly scars, was the zodiac wheel, with those ten symbols around its edge and in its center, Bill himself. Stanley's jaw set at the sight of the demon in all his self-proclaimed glory. 

"Holy crap, Ford," was all Stan could say. 

"Now please hurry up," Ford urged, keeping his gaze anywhere but on himself. He turned his back to him again for easier access, revealing a portrait of Bill, single eye cast upwards and hands ablaze with golden fire, perfectly symmetrical along the ridge of his spine. Or it would have been symmetrical, had it not been marred by bloodstains from the hole made by the knife and from what were unmistakably _six-fingered_ _nail marks_. He'd known that Bill had been like a god to Ford once upon a time, but _this_ was something else. 

"Well? Are you going to do something or are you going to stare at me until I bleed to death?" Ford barked, glancing back at him, crossing his arms. 

"I... yeah, sorry," Stan apologized, finding it hard to focus with a headache that was only getting worse with both Ford and Bill glaring at him. He pulled the knife out, using the towel to put pressure on and stem the flow of blood. Ford never made a sound, but Stan could see the tension in his toned shoulder muscles. God, he was fit. Stanley found himself a touch jealous. Despite their obvious physical similarities, they had always been polar opposites, yin and yang, stocky and scrawny, brains and brawn. But now? Ford still had his brains, but Stan, while by no means unfit for someone as old as he was, comparing himself to his brother, felt more than a little inadequate in the brawn department. 

A memory surfaced without warning again, a memory of finding Ford, much younger than he was now, hiding in the store room of the school gym, crying and hugging his knees. He'd been missing for at least an hour, and it definitely wasn't like Ford to skip Double Math without due cause, though Stanley couldn't quite remember what had gotten Ford so upset, or why he was remembering this now. 

They kept happening, these random memories. Doors that had been nailed shut slowly opening for him, one by one. Little things Ford would do or say that would cause something to come back to him. He remembered most of the last summer thanks to Mabel's scrapbook and the kid's tireless efforts to go through every inane detail of their time in Gravity Falls. His memory outside of that, however, was a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing, only the corners and sides completed. It was taking a while, but it was steadily getting finished, with Ford's patient help. 

"Hey, Ford?" he asked once the bleeding slowed to a crawl and he could finally work. He began bandaging up the wound as tight as he dared. 

"Yes, Stanley?" he answered. Stan could read in his body language just how uncomfortable Ford was with his sweater off. 

"Do you remember one time at middle school? We were around thirteen, I think. I found you in the school gym crying your eyes out behind where they kept the basketballs." 

Ford raised an eyebrow at the odd question. 

"...I remember that, yes. I'm surprised you do, to be honest," Ford replied. Stan finished up bandaging him, and got to his feet to admire his handiwork. Not the neatest, but it would do. Ford rolled his shoulder, testing how it felt, and turned forward to face him. "Why do you ask?" 

Stan shrugged and pulled a case out from under the bed, and clicked open the lock. Inside was a neatly folded selection of clothes and on the top, at least a dozen different colored and patterned hand knitted sweaters, courtesy of Mabel. 

"Why were you crying?" he asked, pulling a few out to look at them. There was a purple one with a UFO on it, a blue one with a thirty-eight sided die on it, One with a pink-navy gradient and the silhouette of a boat on it, and a burgundy one made to look like one of his journals, complete with gold elbow patches and on the chest, a big gold six-fingered hand with a three on the palm. 

"If we're thinking of the same instance of me in tears, hiding where nobody but you could find me, then it's probably the time I got an E in sports. Throw me the one with all the little aliens on it, please, Stanley." 

"An E?" Stan exclaimed, finding the one he meant, a white one covered in little green alien faces. He scrunched the sweater up into an easy to throw ball and lobbed it up to his brother. Ford caught it effortlessly. "You were crying over that? I got E's and D's in pretty much everything until high school." 

" _You_ did, yes," Ford agreed, wincing in pain as he pulled the sweater on over his head. Stan took one last look at his brother's tattoos, before the older twin pulled it down carefully, making sure he didn't touch the bruises on his throat or arm. If Ford had his way, Stan doubted he would get to see them again any time soon. "I, on the other hand, had only ever been a straight A student. I had Mom and Dad constantly telling me how proud they were of my grades, all my teachers telling me I was an exemplary student, destined to go to a great college and really excel in life. Then suddenly, with one lousy E, I felt like I wasn't worthy of all that praise and attention any more. I felt completely worthless. It didn't matter that the lowest grade I had in any other subject was an A minus. That one E proved I wasn't good enough. When the only reason anyone values you is because of your high IQ, having immaculate grades becomes that much more important." 

Stanley grabbed a couple of cans of Pitt cola out of their mini fridge and kicked the door shut. He clicked open the tab of one of them and handed it to Ford. Ford nodded in gratitude and took it. Stan plopped down next to him on the bed, and Ford gulped down almost half the can in one go. 

"That's not the only reason anyone valued you," Stanley told him. The older twin pulled the cola from his lips and held it in both hands. 

"Well, it felt like it was, when I was a kid. It seemed like my smarts was the only thing distracting people from the fact I'm a freak," Ford looked down at his fingers, tapping them rhythmically on the side of the can. "Once I began excelling academically, everyone stopped looking at my hands and started looking at my grades. I was petrified that because of that one bad grade, everything would go back to the way it was all the way through elementary school. That the bullying would get worse again." 

"That why you were crying?" Stan asked. 

"Yes. But, obviously, I didn't want anyone to see, in case I started being called a crybaby as well as a six-fingered devil child. So I hid." 

"And I found you." 

"Yes, you did," Ford chuckled darkly. "You always could." 

"That happened a lot when we were kids, didn't it? The bullying, I mean," Stanley asked him. 

"Unfortunately, yes. Luckily I had you looking out for me. This sweater is like wearing a hug, by the way. Remind me to thank Mabel next time we call the kids." 

"Will do," Stan mumbled, lost in thought. He took another sip of his cola and set it down on the table. Ford pulled his sleeve up a little to check his watch. 

"It's nearly three in the morning. Dawn isn't until gone seven." He downed his can and stood up. "I'd recommend getting some sleep. I'm going to go steer us into safer waters." He found his life jacket hanging on the back of the cabin door and slipped it on. "We're both too injured to deal with sea monsters right now, we should give ourselves some time to recover before we continue with our voyage. It's only going to get more perilous from here on out. We need to be on top form if we're going to face whatever's causing these anomalies and live to tell about it." 

"Then isn't it dangerous to go out on deck by yourself? What if that thing comes back and attacks you?" Ford pulled a futuristic-looking pistol out of his life jacket. He aimed it directly at his empty cola can and fired. The can disintegrated instantly, to Stan's amazement. 

"Point taken. Just... be careful, alright?" 

"I always am. Now get some rest," the older twin instructed, flicking off the cabin lights. 

"Goodnight to you too, bro." Stan smirked, and pulled the covers over himself. Ford watched him for a moment, just to check he was actually trying to sleep. Satisfied, he slipped out of the cabin without a sound. 


	2. Chapter 2

_3_ _rd_ _December_ _201_ _2_ _6_ _:34 am_  

_Have decided to turn back for the time being._ _On course for the_ _island we passed a few days ago, should only be a day_ _or two_ _'s journey if we go full speed_ _._ _Stanley and I are too injured to deal with anything as dangerous as the thing that attacked us a few hours ago. Stan was in bed while I was supposed to be on watch, but I had fallen asleep and didn't re_ _aliz_ _e w_ _e w_ _ere being attacked_ _until it was too late. The creature, which I am calling a_ _Cyclotopus_ _Major,_ _grabbed me, and lashed out at Stanley when he tried to save me. It shattered his glasses, sending shards into his left eye and causing irreparable damage to it. I managed to escape its grasp by stabbing it with my pocket knife. I have sustained serious bruising on my right arm, back and throat, and a_ _nasty graze on my cheek, but I a_ _m otherwise in one piece. Stanley, on the other hand, was not so fortunate. The damage to his eye was too severe and I was forced to take immediate action and remove it before the wound could attempt to heal itself with the glass shards still in there_ _, causing him even more pain and doing even more damage_ _._  

_Stan doesn't seem especial_ _ly fazed by the loss of an eye. In actuality,_ _he seems more upset by the f_ _act I didn't consult him beforehand_ _. Understandable, but he should_ _realize_ _that I had very little choice. I'm not going to let him suffer any more than he has to, and I know for a fact how much it would have hurt him had I left the wound alone._  

_~~Stanley was~~_  

_~~I was~~_  

Ford looked up from his journal, top of his pen between his teeth. The vast ocean spread out before him, the last few persistent stars shining before the dawn inevitably chased them away. The words just weren't coming, and he’d already filled half the page with quick sketches before he’d written anything. The new journal was Dipper's idea, not a record, but a medium to put his true feelings into words so he could express them to Stan much easier. He mostly used it as a Captain's Log but he did try to curb his usually objective writing style. Now, however... 

_That thought has been haunting me again. There was a brief moment, after the creature attacked Stanley, when I was convinced he was going to look up at me, grinning, with pupils morphed into those horrible reptilian slits. Thankfully I was wrong_ _, but he keeps …spacing out_ _, and I can’t help the_ _chill that runs down my spine each time._ _In addition, he’s begun talking in his sleep. This is_ _not unusual for Stanley, he used to mumble in his sleep almost every night when we were teenagers._ _It’s_ what _he’s actually saying_ _that disturbs me_ _…_ _it almost sounds like a cipher, repeated over and over. I recorded it while Stan was asleep after the attack, will transcribe once I’ve_ _had chance to_ _listen to it properly._  

_I_ _hope that this_ _is just_ _a_ _baseless resurgence of familiar paranoia_ _, and I’m seeing patterns where there is only_ _coincidence_ _. I’ve had multiple_ _relapses into that frame of mind_ _over the years_ _, though none since_ _That Day_ _. I haven't raised_ _any of_ _these concerns_ _with Stanley yet. I doubt I will_ _. I'm_ _unsure how he_ _, or indeed He,_ _would_ _react._  

_As strange as it sounds,_ _I hope I’m_ _being paranoid_ _more than anything._  

Ford closed the journal at the sound of footsteps behind him. 

“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asked, not turning to look at him but instead gazing out at the open ocean, the last of the stars fading with the first light of morning. With the engines off, there wasn’t a sound to be heard save for the gentle thud of waves hitting the sides of the Stan O War II. 

“Nah, head hurts too much. Sure it’s nothing to worry about though," Stan shrugged, and sat down next to him. Ford cocked an eyebrow, and looked around at him. He was still wearing the eyepatch over the bandage. 

"I'll be the judge of that." 

"Relax, Poindexter, I'm fine," Stan chuckled. 

"If anything changes, if you get any unexpected drowsiness or dizzy spells, anything at all, then please tell me immediately." 

"Fine, whatever will get you to stop worrying about me." Stan shrugged.  

"Do you want to take something for it?" 

"Might not be a bad idea. You got aspirin?" 

"Better than,” he said simply. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather pouch. He reached into it and pulled out a berry the size of a peanut. "A little something I discovered years ago. It only grows in the most enchanted part of the forest, just west of the gnome tavern. I picked some fresh ones before we left Gravity Falls, thought they might come in handy." 

"What are they?" Stanley asked, taking it off Ford and setting it in the palm of his hand. He eyed it suspiciously. It was an aggressive shade of fuchsia, with little yellow hairs coating it at the bottom. He poked it with his finger, and it _recoiled_. 

"Trust me, a minute or so after taking one your headache will be a distant memory." 

"That doesn't answer my question," Stan pointed out.  

"They work by inducing a high that overrides any pain signals currently being sent to the brain, and the strength of the effect changes depending on how it is taken. You'll want to bite it to drink the juice inside it, but don't swallow the skin or seed." Stan popped it in his mouth. It tasted oddly dusty, just sat on his tongue. "Weirdly, the juice tastes different for everyone. I'm curious what it'll be like for you." 

"Let's find out," Stan said, and bit down. At once the succulent liquid filled his mouth. His taste buds felt like they'd travelled back in time fifty years. 

"Well?" Ford asked. He let the flavor sit on his tongue for just a moment, then swallowed it down. He spat the solid bits of the berry out over the side. “What did it taste like?" 

"You remember that time Ma convinced Pops to try baking, and he tried to make a pie? But he misread the recipe and instead of putting in two teaspoons of cinnamon he put in two heaped tablespoons instead?" 

"How could I forget? He made us eat the whole thing anyway or he was going to ground us for being picky and unappreciative. I don't even like cinnamon. Or at least, that ordeal put me off the stuff for life." 

"Tastes exactly like that pie," Stan told him. Ford rubbed his chin. 

"Fascinating. I had a theory that it's changing taste might be down to the childhood memories of whoever drinks the juice, but it seems that truly is the case.”  

“Why, what did it taste like for you?” 

“Do you recall that woman who lived right by the pier back in Jersey? Had a garden full of weird, unidentifiable fruit?” 

“Yeah, I do. We used to climb over her garden wall, steal some and eat them on our way to the beach. You saying they taste like those fruits?” 

“Precisely. Fiddleford told me that for him, it was like very bitter dark chocolate, like the kind his grandmother used to let him have a square of whenever he helped her with an errand. Only myself and Fiddleford were around to try it when I first discovered them, which isn't really enough of a research pool to extract any meaningful data from. Three different people is slightly better. How's your headache?" 

"Gone completely. And I don't have an ache or a pain anywhere. They're pretty effective." 

"Aren't they just? See, the juice," Ford explained, taking one out of the pouch and playing with it in his fingers, "mixed with the enzymes in saliva, is just strong enough to counter any minor pain without other side effects. The whole thing chewed up and ingested is enough to give you a pleasant buzz for a few hours, as well as negating much worse pain than a headache." 

"And swallowing the whole thing without chewing?" 

"Between three and five consecutive, intense orgasms,” he stated. 

Stanley's eyebrows immediately had a competition to see which of them could get closest to his hairline. 

"...I take it you know that from experience," he smirked. 

"Yes, I do," Ford admitted, a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. "Whatever you do, don't get drunk with your best friend - slash - lab assistant one night and neck three 1981 edition D69's. Things get ...wild." 

"What the hell is a D69?" 

"Oh, it's a drink Fiddleford and I invented in college. One part blueberry schnapps, one part dry gin, one part pineapple juice, shaken, poured over ice and topped off with whipped cream." 

"Sounds delicious."  

"It is delicious. I'll have to make us one each when we get home. Classic, not '81 edition. The '81 has one of these berries on it like a glacé cherry and trust me, it's not something you want to drink with anyone you don't want to wake up in bed next to."  

"Again, I take it you know from experience." 

"I thought that went without saying," Ford told him with a smirk.  

"That happen often with you and McGucket?" 

“You might not believe it, Stanley, but he was actually quite a looker back in the day.” 

“I’ve seen a few sketches you did of the mysterious “F” and yeah I can see it. What was it, lab-partners-with-benefits?" 

"I suppose that's one way of describing it. I think he wanted our relationship to go a little deeper than just a bit of mutual pleasure now and again, but it never did." 

"Why not?" 

"Because he was married. And because I was a little preoccupied in my devotion to another at the time." 

Stan knew better than to ask. His brother's whole manner shifted whenever he mentioned the years he spent worshipping Bill like the god he pretended to be. Even if he hadn't read about their relationship in the journals and in Ford's private notes, he'd still have guessed there was once some connection between Ford and the triangle. You don't fill your home full of rugs, statues, tapestries and stained glass windows in the image of just anyone. Heck, you don't cover yourself in tattoos of just anyone.  

Another flashback hit him, of him aged seventeen, excitedly telling his brother about his date with Carla McCorkle. How she loved him, and they were going to be together forever and he'd been thinking of getting a tattoo in her honor. He remembered asking Ford to design it for him, and Ford chuckling and reminding him their father would never ever let him get a tattoo, and that it was a horrible idea anyway, because what if it didn't work out? He'd be stuck forever with a tattoo of someone who broke his heart, reminded of the pain every time he looked at himself. 

Oh. 

"When you say devotion, you really aren’t kidding, are you? You didn't just worship Bill, did you?" Stan realized, his words soft. "You loved him." Ford blinked at the bold summary.  

"I..." he began, not quite knowing what to say. He swallowed. “Where on earth did you get that idea? What a ridiculous notion, I-" 

“Stanford.” 

And with just one word, his resolve was shattered.  

“Yes. I did,” he admitted softly, eyes on the deck. “Intensely and completely. You can’t understand, he was... magnificent, and I was a fool, hungry for the praise and validation he gave. He made me feel important on an interdimensional scale, told me I was going to change the world. Together, we were going to do impossible things. He was going to show me the universe first hand, in all of its splendor. We were friends, partners. And then..." 

"And then you got a crush on the talking pizza slice,” Stan summarized. Ford shot him a look that quickly turned from scorn to defeat.  

"The second I realized how I felt, He knew about it. It's hard to hide your private thoughts from someone you've let inside your mind." 

"Wasn't it weird, having him constantly in and out of your head all the time?" 

"At first, I suppose it was a little strange. Yet, it's liberating in a way you don’t expect, sharing everything you have with someone, every thought, every memory.” 

"Is that what made you fall for him? What made you trust him so completely?" 

"I guess it's hard to understand. But back then, he... he was everything I wanted in a muse, in a lover, in a friend. He listened to me, he comforted me, he even made sure I was eating and sleeping enough. He’d take control of my body and guide it to bed for me if I fell asleep at my desk. I was the latest in a long line of geniuses he had influenced over the centuries, but he made it seem like I was special to him even amongst such an impressive roster. That my unwavering devotion to him was stronger than anyone else's in history. Despite all the lies he told me, on that point I think he might have been telling the truth." 

"I'm sure there must have been bigger suckers than you, Ford." 

"You think so, Stanley?" he asked, a dry smirk on his lips. "I never understood the meaning of the word faith until I met him. He was my god, my idol. You don't know how deeply under his spell I was." He gestured down at his torso. "These? They're not tattoos. I didn't go to some parlor and have them drawn on me, oh no. They manifested on me as part of a ritual, that I consented to, that let him possess me as fully as he could. These are signs and symbols designed to keep him temporarily tethered in this dimension, bound to human form, my form. I knew they would be permanent, but I agreed anyway.” He held out his hand to his brother, tracing his finger over thin white scars in the palm. “I knew the ritual required blood magic, but I picked up the knife and drove it into my skin anyway. I knew I would be entrusting not just my body, but my life, my very soul to him, and I was completely fine with that. I shook his hand. I trusted him _that_ deeply."  

"Ford..." 

"And when he possessed me, actually truly possessed me? The two of us together in one body?" Ford let his fingers intersect to demonstrate. "Oh, Stanley, I felt like I could tear a planet in half with a gaze. I couldn’t move or breathe or think without his word, just filled with what felt like a supernova under my skin. He poured visions into my head; the future, the past, secrets, answers to mysteries man has been trying to solve for as long as there has been man. All of them flickering through my mind so fast I couldn't process them. He let me see his world, and worlds beyond that, and worlds even beyond that. He showed me the universe in all its shimmering detail.” 

Stan swore he could see stars shining in his brother's eyes as he spoke.  

"I caught a glimpse of his true nature there and then, not that I questioned it. My mind flashed with the memory of whole dimensions burning and collapsing under the weight of their own chaos, the laws of physics and reality rendered pointless under His power. I don't know if I thought so because _H_ _e_ thought so, in that moment I was more him than I was myself, but all that destruction, all that pure anarchy, it was ...breathtakingly beautiful. Then the visions stopped, he left me and I was unbearably _empty_." 

Then, Stan realized that what was shining in his brother's eyes wasn't stars. It was the beginnings of tears. The first tinge of pink broke through the dark of the sky behind him as the first of them fell down his cheek. 

"I'd never been so close to another living soul before. And, I suppose, I never will be again, now he's gone for good. No human nor any creature I have ever encountered even compares after that. To tell you the truth, Stanley, I miss having that level of intimacy with someone. I miss being able to trust in someone so completely." 

Ford pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his tired eyes.  

"Listen to me," he said with a dry chuckle, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Still managing to find ways of putting him on a pedestal. I guess I never successfully killed the part of me that idolized and worshipped him. The part that desperately wanted everything to go back to the way it was before I discovered the truth, wanted to wake up and realize it was all just a bad dream. Even after everything he did, after everything I've been through, deep down I'm still the same fool I was thirty years ago." 

"That's not true," Stan insisted. 

"Are you sure about that, Stanley? Because I still get that same flutter in my chest I did back then when I remember that out of everyone in the world, in our universe, he chose _me._ I still get butterflies when I think about what we had before it all turned to lies. About what we could have had if I just-" His voice cracked and he couldn't finish the sentence. Stan noticed the tremor in his tensed hands. 

"Hey, bro, it's okay-" Stan placed a comforting hand on Ford's shoulder. Ford shook him off immediately, rising to his feet in anger. 

"No, it isn't!" he yelled, his voice frayed and strained. "What kind of a monster does that make me, Stanley, if after all this time, even after everything Bill did, _I still love him_?" 

There was silence in the wake of his outburst, save for the gentle lapping of waves and Ford’s heavy breathing.  

"It doesn't make you a monster." Stan said calmly. "If anything, it makes you more human." 

"What?" 

"Humans make mistakes. Humans aren't perfect beings made of pure energy. We get desires, form attachments, and sometimes no matter what we do, no matter what _they_ do, we can't just turn off how we feel about someone. From what you’ve told me, you loved him with everything you had, gave him everything you had to give. A love that intense, it's no wonder you still feel something for him besides hatred, even now. You might never get over Bill. There’s always gonna be some part of you that wants to wake up, twenty-eight again, and find out that everything that happened since was just a nightmare. That doesn’t go away.” 

"Stan..." Ford sat back down. 

“I know. Trust me, I know. I don’t remember the years after I got kicked out too well, but I remember enough. For the longest time, I hated you. I hated Pops, I hated myself for being such a goddamn idiot but above everything else I hated you. You turned your back on me, you wouldn’t listen, you didn’t want anything to do with me. You were happy and successful and everything I wasn’t.” He I got a letter from Ma at least once a year, telling me how you were getting on. I felt shittier every time. You graduated with a million goddamn honors and degrees and were heading out north-west to build a house in some stupid hick town in Oregon. And where was I? Lying on a mattress full of cockroaches in a motel room I couldn’t afford with three cracked ribs and a black eye, staring at the ceiling and wishing I could undo that one stupid mistake that ruined it all. I found out you’d been given a huge grant from your college the same day I first resorted to sucking dick for rent money.” 

“Jesus Christ, Stanley...” Ford exclaimed, but Stan just kept going. 

“But I never stopped naively hoping that someday, maybe, you’d want to see me again. That we’d be just as close as we always were.” 

“And then when I finally did reach out to you,” Ford cut in, “I was so wrapped up in my own paranoia that I never even considered how rough you’d been living.” he clasped his brother’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Stanley. If I’d known for just a second-” Stan silenced him with a shake of his head. 

“Don’t. I’m not after sympathy or an apology. There’s no point anymore.” He sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, even when I was at my absolute lowest, I still drove to the nearest phone booth and spent my last bit of change trying to call you. I know it’s not the same and I’m not trying to compare you to Him at all, but I need you to know that… I get it, okay?” 

“Stanley, I…” Ford didn’t know how to respond. He tried to process all Stan had told him, file it all away, but one look at his brother’s face and his thoughts scattered again. Stan let his forehead fall against Ford’s. The older twin closed his eyes, and Stanley followed suit. 

“You don’t have to say anything, Sixer.” 

“I’m so, so sorry.” 

“Shut up. Just... shut up and watch the sunrise with me, okay?” Stan insisted. A smile crept it’s way onto his brother’s face. 

“Just like we used to…” Ford mumbled. Stan opened his eyes. 

“What?”  

Ford opened his, and sat up straight. 

“Don’t you remember, Stanley?” 

“Remember what?” Stan asked. 

“When we were kids, if one of us was upset, if we’d had a nightmare or if Dad had beaten us so hard we couldn’t sleep for the pain, we’d sneak out of the house together and go down to the beach. We'd sit on the swings, or go to the Stan O War, the original one. We’d lie on the deck and watch the stars until the sun rose.” 

All at once, the memory of a hundred sunrises flooded Stan’s mind, each its own beautiful portrait of a new beginning.  

Wearily, Stan maneuvered himself down onto the floor of the deck, lying on his back. The first clouds of morning were just becoming lined with an orangey-peach color. 

“You used to tell me what all the different constellations were. I’d listen to you ramble on for hours about the different mythologies they came from, the stories connected to them…” 

Ford, still with a wistful smile on his lips, got down on his knees and laid down on the deck next to his brother.  

“Remember that time Gemini was right overhead?” Stan asked.  

“That was our eleventh birthday, wasn't it? Why did we go down to the Stan O War on our birthday?” 

“It was the day after I got suspended from school. Dad wouldn’t let me out of my room, he wouldn’t let me have any birthday presents. I cried for hours, until it got to like ten at night, then I put a bunch of pillows under my blanket to make it look like I’d gone to sleep and I snuck out through the window. You came and found me by the beach an hour later and stayed with me ‘til morning.” 

“What did you get suspended for?” 

“Really, Ford? You remember what constellation was in the sky that night, but not why you spent our eleventh birthday alone?” 

“I remember. I’m just checking if you do.” 

Stan cast his mind back. He could picture his father’s face, scowling, his mother’s disappointment, feel phantom pain on his cheek, but the actual reason was harder to grasp. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine it. could almost hear Ford’s young voice begging; 

_“No, please Pop_ _, don’t_ _!_ _H_ _e_ _did_ _it to scare_ _them so they'd leave me alone_ _!_ _He did it for me!_ _”_  

It was like a dam breaking. 

“It, it was Crampelter, right?” he asked. Ford’s brow furrowed, not that Stan noticed. 

“Indeed it was, Stanley.” 

 All the details came flooding back. The itch in his fingers as he stared at the clock in Ms. Michael’s classroom, acutely aware of the empty desk next to him. He didn't pay any attention to the teacher that afternoon, his focus instead flickered between the clock and the door, growing more and more anxious with every second that ticked by. A chuckle from behind him made him turn, only to see Crampelter’s slimy grin. Then, he just knew something was wrong. He didn't even ask permission to leave, he just slipped out of the door as soon as he thought Mrs. Michaels was distracted and ran all through the school looking for his brother. He distinctly remembered the hammering of his heart in his chest, the flare of anger that simmered through him when he saw Ford's locker. Crampelter and his friends had gotten hold of a few permanent markers and the best thing they could think to do with them was to write "FREAK" and other such lovely sentiments all over it, and buckle the metal so it couldn't be opened. 

 It didn't even occur to him Ford might be in there until he heard a muffled thud coming from inside, and then his blood turned to ice. They'd shoved their favorite victim in his own locker, trapped him in there with his mouth and hands taped up. He'd been in there two hours by the time Stan had found him. Mrs. Michaels ran after him as soon as she realized he was missing from her class too, and found him with tears down his cheeks and bloody fingers from trying to prize the locker door open with his bare hands. Once they got Ford out of there, she asked him who did this but he couldn't even speak he was so shaken. Even when he calmed down, he refused to say anything in case he got it worse next time for being a tattletale. Stanley didn't need to hear it from him. He knew it was Crampelter and his friends, and he knew he wasn't going to let them get away with it. 

That was way before Stanley was tough enough to deal with bullies the old fashioned way, but luckily revenge is a dish that can be prepared in multiple ways. And in this case best served hot, seeing as the day after, he waited in the school until after dark, picked his way into Crampelter's locker, stole all his belongings and homework (and secret stash of cigarettes) and set all them on fire on the school field. He only got caught because the History and Physical Education teachers had also stayed behind after dark, getting very physical and not very educational. He was suspended from school for six weeks, but Crampelter stayed away from Stanford for even longer. 

“Guess you don’t need me looking out for you like that anymore, huh,” he mused. 

“Of course I do, Stanley,” Ford insisted, taking hold of his hand, six weaving perfectly with five like it always had. “The difference is that now we’re looking out for each other.”  

Stan didn't say anything, he simply gave his brother's hand a squeeze and kept watching the sky. With the gentle sound of waves against the hull as a lullaby, the pair let the rhythmic movement of the Stan ‘O War lull them to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like, this is my first GF fic and my first time posting on AO3. Comments and thoughts on how you think this will play out are incredibly encouraged. I'll be honest and say the only reason I decided to post this is because I've hit a bit of a creative block and wanted to know what people think of it before continuing. Thanks!


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